By George Sterling

Why standest thou on Beauty's topmost peak,
    So distant that the very stars appear
    Thy coronal irradiant and near?
Why standest there, with all my heart too weak
Ever to dream that silent Fate shall speak
    The words I wait forevermore to hear,
    Foredoomed to reckon Beauty's rose too dear
And find its throne upon thine either cheek?

What tho I stand so close its perfumed dart
    Slays sleep itself? Unclaspt thou still must go,
As each year steals a petal from its heart,
        Till on the face where Love's mad lips would feed
    Death's snows are set to match thy spirit's snow—
        Thou'rt lost, and every other flower's a weed!


Bibliography Entry